


The Imaginary Friend

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Mostly Mystrade, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Orphans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3691800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock and Mycroft's parents die in an accident they both struggle with how to cope. Mycroft needs to apply for a job and doesn't have the energy to deal with his six year old brother all the time. Enter in one Greg, who Mycroft believes to be Sherlock's imaginary friend, until one day he comes home and he realizes he's very much real. Background John/Sherlock friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Imaginary Friend

“Sherlock, please leave me be for a quarter hour at least,” Mycroft sighed, looking at the time, frustrated, “My deadline’s at ten after,”

“But it’s important!” the smaller boy hopped up and down, “It’s to do with _piracy_ ”

“Sherlock I am not playing the naval captain right now,” Mycroft insisted.

“You’re just saying that because you’re upset that the pirate always wins. Want to play deductions?” Sherlock offered brightly, “What are you writing? Is it another application? Can I see? Who are you sending it to? The queen? Can I meet the queen?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is an application to a most coveted government position, which I shall not get unless you leave me alone!” Mycroft snapped, but instantly regretted it.

Sherlock crossed his arms and looked furious, but Mycroft knew he was hurt, “Fine I don’t want to play with you anyway!”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried to explain to him gently, as he always did, but the dark haired ball of energy had already sprinted back downstairs.

Just as well, Mycroft thought, he would let off some steam, and that would give him the time to finish this. As they lived alone, Sherlock was rarely angry at him for long periods of time. At worst he would sulk for a day or so and then come to.

***

“Are you still not speaking to me?” Mycroft inquired over dinner.

“I wouldn’t want to interfere in your employment prospects,” the six-year old fiddled with the vegetables in his plate.

“What did you do all that time outside?” Mycroft persisted.

“I was playing with my new friend Greg,”

“Greg? You have a friend named Greg?”

“Yes, aren’t you listening? He’s training to be a police inspector; I was planning on running away when he found me at the market,”

“Sherlock you can never do that again,” Mycroft said sternly, “What if something had occurred? Do you ever think?”

“He asked me where my parents were,” Sherlock continued nonchalantly, “I said they were dead. And I asked him to show me the way home. I was lying of course; I know the roads better than he does.”

Mycroft didn’t know whether getting angry would be of any use at this point. The kid had a stubborn streak and a penchant for not listening. Yelling might make it worse.

“And then what? He just left his day job to play pirates with you?” Mycroft said, “Hardly likely.”

“No he did,” Sherlock said, “And-and-he took me out for a ride on his motorcycle,”

“He’s not real is he,” Mycroft said suddenly, “You’re just trying to make me feel guilty for telling you off this morning.”

“He is _so_ real,”

“I would have seen him at the police station by now. I go there enough as for my current position affiliating with law enforcement is unfortunately common,” Mycroft grumbled.

“No he’s real, I’m telling you,”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft decided to take the high road, “I perhaps should not have been so short with you. But you cannot run away from home. It is for one thing highly dangerous.”

“What would you know about danger?” Sherlock crossed his arms, “You spend all day in your room writing things. Sending off letters to people. You don’t even have any friends.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, this was really trying his patience, “Don’t be difficult.”

Sherlock looked like he was either about to throw something or cry, “Maybe you should send me to an orphanage.”

“Don’t start this again. You are perfectly aware I don’t want that,” Mycroft said sharply.

Sherlock didn’t respond, running away from the table. Vegetables forgotten. Mycroft finished dining alone.

***

“Mycroft?” a small voice said, knocking at the door.

“Do come in,” Mycroft said, sitting up in bed.

“It’s me, Sherlock,” the kid stood in the doorway.

“I surmised as much,”

“Can I talk to you?” he shuffled awkwardly.

“You already are, but you’re welcome to continue,”

“If I keep being difficult will you send me to a secret government orphanage in the Swiss Alps?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft retorted.

“I’m not a burden?”

“No, a nuisance at times, yes. But I do need something to do with my time besides being locked up in my room and having no friends.”

“I’m sure you have some friends,” Sherlock offered apologetically.

“No, I’m living in a world of goldfish,” Mycroft remarked.

“What?”

“I will explain that later. Remind me in ten years,” Mycroft looked at Sherlock, “There’s something else.”

“I wanted some chemical defect found on the losing side,”

“Sherlock what are you—oh, sentiment. I told you that. I do recall. Just this once, and we have quarreled.”

“Yes!” Sherlock ran over to Mycroft and hugged him, “I knew you wouldn’t send me to an orphanage!”

Mycroft patted him on the head, “Right. Well.”

“I hope you enjoy your goldfish!” Sherlock said as he ran back out the door.

The older boy tried his hardest not to smirk. But then caved in and did anyway. Living with Sherlock was so unpredictable.

***

The next week was a rollercoaster again. Mycroft was writing to various government officials, pleading his case, requesting letters of recommendation. He went out in the evenings to print and fax copies of his resume. In the mornings he watched the news and kept tabs on current events. In the afternoons he checked in on Sherlock and made sure he would have things to eat when he was hungry. He was expecting the usual barrage of _play with me now_ requests and _Do you want to build a snowman?_ renditions from Frozen, which Mycroft was deeply sorry to have ever gotten a DVD of.  Sherlock had identified immediately with Anna, mentally attached Mycroft to Elsa, and Mycroft didn’t appreciate having to sing along to _Let it Go_ to de-sulk his little brother. A sulking Sherlock was like a ticking time bomb after all. Who knows what crockery might get destroyed? Where bugs might end up. But the kid was oddly content.

All Mycroft could make out besides the blanket on the couch was the mop of unruly black curls, which he pushed up to feel for a fever, but his brother’s skin was cool.

“I guess you’re wondering why I don’t need you to play with me,” Sherlock awoke suddenly, a smug look on his face.

“I am naturally dying to know,”

“Greg stopped by again,”

“Every day this week?” Mycroft asked, “Sherlock it’s not healthy to spend all your time with imaginar—“

“He actually exists, he knew Dad, Dad was an officer in the same precinct Greg’s training to be a part of,”

“Sherlock, don’t bring Dad into this fantasy. It’ll only hurt you.”

“Why don’t you believe me!?”

“It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this Sherlock,” Mycroft scratched his head, “Playing pretend,”

“He told me Dad was a hero, about all the people he helped when he was alive, and you said heroes don’t exist,” Sherlock snapped.

“I did not say that exactly.”

“I told him about you,” Sherlock said.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him how ever since Mum and Dad died you’ve been trying to be an adult but you’re really still just a kid and you’re all obsessed with this government job and get mad at me.”

“What did he say to that?” Mycroft asked.

“He said I should give you some space when you’re upset, and that you’re probably doing what’s best for the both of us,”

“That was quite mature of him,” Mycroft stared intently on Sherlock, “And do you agree?”

“I suppose so,”

***

Sherlock didn’t mention Greg again for a few weeks. Mycroft supposed he was tired of hearing about how it wasn’t healthy to have imaginary friends. But a change had gone over him. And Mycroft suddenly thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad, this imaginary friend Greg. Maybe it had helped Sherlock work through the grief in a way that all the therapists, Mycroft himself and the school counselors had never been able to do. In some way this _Greg_ mental figment had actually gotten through to him. Sherlock was a lot calmer. He could focus better. And Mycroft was happy about it.

He had expected the first year after the accident to be difficult. Sherlock had been a lot to handle even when Mycroft wasn’t the only one in charge of him. And afterward it just got worse. He got into fights in school. Or just ditched classes entirely. Or did idiotic things for attention. Running through traffic. Painting on the school walls after hours. Burning Mycroft’s files in the fireplace. Mycroft couldn’t even get seriously mad at the kid. Because if he wasn’t the rather contained entity that he was, he would probably do things like that too. He was upset, and terrified, and furious in his own way about what had happened. The suddenness with which they had gone from a family of four to two. But only one of them could give in to that feeling, he decided. And it would have to be Sherlock. It was that simple. And Mycroft would take care of him. Not because he had to. But because the ridiculous kid was all he had left of the old life. He had expected it to be difficult.

What he didn’t expect, however, was to come home one day from the post office, and see a young man in a leather jacket and jeans sitting on the sofa, watching _Frozen_ with his little brother.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft hung his umbrella on its hook, “Who exactly are you?”

“Oh, you must be Mycroft,” the man got off the sofa and extended his hand, “Greg Lestrade.”

“Told you he was real,” Sherlock darted over.

“I am sorry, did you say you’re Greg _Lestrade_?” Mycroft stared at him in disbelief.

“I did,” Greg laughed nervously.

“We went to school together, you probably don’t recall that,”

“No of course I do, mate, Head Boy Holmes, top of the class, hard to forget,”

Sherlock grinned smugly, “In your face!”

“Sherlock, could myself and Mr. Lestrade have a word in private?” Mycroft asked.

“I’ll deduce what you said based on his expressions afterward,” Sherlock said deviously as he walked into the other room.

“You do that,” Mycroft said to his retreating back, then turned to Greg.

“I did believe for the longest time that you were simply a figment of my brother’s imagination, that is why I was so surprised, I did not intend to be rude.” Mycroft explained.

“He likes to imagine things, that’s for sure, but he’s a good kid, I’m sure you know that though,”

“All this time, you’ve been helping him. What possible motivation could you have?”

“Your father was a great mentor to me. He convinced me to join up. Besides mate, I like Sherlock. He’s quite special. I haven’t met a kid that sharp, he’s even helpful when I talk to him on cases. He’d make a great detective one day.”

“I-I do not know how I can possibly thank you. The change in him has been remarkable to say the least.”

“It was my pleasure. But if you absolutely insist. You could go out with me sometime?” Greg chuckled nervously.

Mycroft seemed taken aback, staring at the other man’s earnest eyes and wild, windswept hair, “I do not date. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Greg said, “Forget I said anything mate, alright?”

“Right. Sherlock you can come back now,” Mycroft walked passed him, his heart thudding in his chest, where was that kid when he needed him?

“Are the adults finished conspiring?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah we’re done, want to finish the film? I have a case to tell you about, there’s a headless nun in it for you,”

“Of course, yes, but change the subtitles to Swedish I think I’m getting a hang of the French,” Sherlock said happily.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Mycroft slipped out of the room, “Greg,”

“See you around, mate,” Greg nodded.

When he got to his room Mycroft retreated to his mind palace. Greg Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. School. School was in the East wing. Third room to the right. Rugby captain Greg. That motorcycle. Attractive be all conventional standards. All the girls after him. Shortly turned to delinquency after parents fell on financial hardship. Mycroft’s father had helped a kid out who fit this description. Reformed him. Of course. That was Greg Lestrade.

***

“Did you like him?” Sherlock asked the next day.

“As people go, he seemed quite amenable,”

“You were blushing later, did something happen?”

“I do not blush, I had just come in from a very taxing errand, and nothing happened, I was just thanking him for spending time with you,”

“He likes spending time with me,” Sherlock said defensively, “He tells stories. But he says my stories are better.”

“That’s not why I thanked him,”

“Then why?”

“I thanked him because I should be spending time with you, I’m your brother,”

“You have better things to do,”

“Hardly,”

Sherlock smiled at this, “You should ask him out. I know you like him.”

“I do not like him.”

“Yes, you do. Your eyes dilated a bit when you were talking.”

“Sherlock, please. I am not infatuated with Greg Lestrade.”

“I never used the word infatuated. You did,”

***

They ran into each other at the house. Now that they had formally met, Greg asked him for permission to take Sherlock places. Traveling circus. The zoo. That sort of thing. And Mycroft felt obliged to let him but also obliged to come along. Greg had now taken to inviting along his stepbrother John Watson, who at eight was two years older than Sherlock, but the two seemed to have hit it off. So it was Mycroft and Greg and John and Sherlock on these occasional expeditions. Which would have been awkward, as Mycroft and Greg really had never interacted in school at all. And without the energetic buffer of Sherlock, Mycroft hadn’t been sure how this would go.

But it was easier than Mycroft expected. He could talk about the government job he now had, no specifics of course. About current events, which Greg brought an interesting perspective to. About Sherlock, who Greg seemed to understand better than Mycroft ever had. And after a long time, about the accident as well, which Mycroft never discussed the details of.

Mycroft had taken to joining the three of them too, on movie nights at the Holmes household or at Lestrade’s flat. And while John and Sherlock would munch on popcorn and shriek at gory scenes and close their eyes at romantic scenes, he and Greg would sit back and remark on the poor plot choices, the lack of consistency and the true message the film was trying to project. Well Mycroft would remark on that. And Greg had gradually learned to see it the same way too. It was a nice distraction to the intensity of his work for the bureaucracy. A really nice one.

Greg didn’t seem to mind how distant he could be at times. The outer ice layer, as Sherlock had once called it, just like Elsa. He thought back to that day a long time ago. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad. To go out for coffee. Too late now.

***

They came home late from a play one day. Sherlock and John fell asleep in the cab home and dropped John off first. When they came to the Holmes residence Greg carried a sleeping Sherlock inside, and took him up his bedroom, tucking the covers in around him as Mycroft watched.

“He’s never like this, calm, it’s strange isn’t it?” Mycroft remarked.

“Yeah,” Greg said as they turned and walked back downstairs, “Strange,”

“Thank you again, I know I don’t say it often enough, but what you’ve done for him. Introducing him to John was a stroke of genius. And that is the highest compliment of which I am capable,”

“Well he introduced me to you, so there you go,” Greg laughed.

Mycroft’s heart sped up a little bit, “How many times has my brother made you watch Frozen?”

“Easily two dozen,”

Mycroft rarely did impulsive things in life. So he didn’t quite know what he was doing when he leaned forward and kissed Greg Lestrade. But luckily for him, Greg did know what he was doing, and quite competently pushed up against the living room wall and kissed him back. It was quite logical, Mycroft thought. Two dozen times. The man deserved a snog.

***

“Sherlock,” Mycroft shook him awake the next morning.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft said again.

“What?” Sherlock said groggily.

“Would it be alright with you if I pursued a relationship of a romantic nature with your friend Greg Lestrade?”

“Why are you asking my permission?”

“He was your friend first,” Mycroft rationalized.

“One condition,”

“Yes?”

“You must play pirates with me whenever I ask,”

“Within reason,” Mycroft agreed, “Anything else?”

Sherlock fished a five pound note from his pocket, “If you two go out today tell him to give this to John.”

“Why?”

“We had a bet on how long you two could go without snogging two days ago. I said you could go another week. He said you wouldn’t last more than forty eight hours,”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Mystrade. As I mainly write Johnlock. I really like this pairing though so I might do it again! :)


End file.
